


The Road to Inlé

by silverpard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Watership Down - Richard Adams
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverpard/pseuds/silverpard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If we're going to make a habit of this," the Black Rabbit said, "you can call me Mycroft. For all farms are mine, and I wait for rabbits there more often than not."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Inlé

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** BBC!Sherlock in the context of the world of **Watership Down**. Everyone is a rabbit - Lestrade is in the Owsla, Mycroft is the Black Rabbit of Inle. Looking to keep it strictly gen, the rest is up to anon.
> 
> Who can resist badass bunnies?

The first time:

Winter hadn't been a member of the Owsla long and it was his first raid. It could also have been his last, and nearly was.

He cowered in the thin bramble hedge, barely two rabbit-lengths wide, his back pressed against a wire fence, watching the dog snarling and snapping and forcing its gigantic muzzle through the bramble towards him, ignoring the thorns.

"Quite the situation," the Black Rabbit said softly in his ear.

Winter shuddered and almost bolted, never mind that it would be impossible to escape either the dog or the Black Rabbit.

"Not yet, I think," the Black Rabbit decided after a moment, finally looking away from Winter's stupefied gaze. "There's still a use for you."

Just as the dog was about to force its way in enough to catch Winter in its jaws, its master whistled sharply, and whining, it was forced to retreat.

Winter stayed in the hedge until he could no longer taste the nothingness of the Black Rabbit on his tongue, and then made his way back to the warren. It took him until Frith rise to notice the grey fur at the base of his left ear, the spot the Black Rabbit had pressed his muzzle against to whisper into his ear.

* * *

The second time:

He hadn't thought he'd been that ill, but when he opened his eyes and saw the Black Rabbit, he realised he was obviously mistaken.

"This won't do at all," the Black Rabbit said, unexpectedly fussy, like a mother doe irritated with her kits, and Winter giggled.

"Get up," the Black Rabbit snapped. "I know where some comfrey can be found."

"Want to sleep," Winter mumbled.

"You will have nothing _but_ sleep in the end, Eleerhay. Get up now."

Nobody ever used his full name. Winter got up, and made his way, staggering, up the burrow. "What won't do?" he said, dazedly. Fever robbed the Black Rabbit of his terror, it seemed, for the mere sight of his fur didn't make Winter shudder, and the nothingness of his scent didn't make him bolt.

"Take care, Eleerhay, though of course we will meet again."

A short time after, Winter met the most irritating yearling ever born in the warren, a buck by the name of Hythlay, who thought he could do Winter's job better than he could.

* * *

The third time:

"If we're going to make a habit of this," the Black Rabbit said, "you can call me Mycroft. For all farms are mine, and I wait for rabbits there more often than not."

"I'd rather not," Winter said. His heart raced in his chest even as the cat caught sight of something and darted away, leaving its prey behind. "I can't leave yet," he said, as if it was a matter of choice. "Hythlay still needs guidance, and watching," he said. Funny, what the Black Rabbit's presence brought to mind.

" _I,"_ the Black Rabbit said, "watch _everyone_."

* * *

The fourth time:

He was captain of the Owsla, leading a patrol, when he caught sight of the Black Rabbit once more. He slipped into the corner of Winter's vision and waited until he stopped and followed. There was an injured hlessi in the nettles, his shoulder torn open above old scar tissue, lying still as if he meant to die.

The Black Rabbit looked up as he licked the hlessi's shoulder clean of blood. "Eleerhay," he said. "This is Hrarainlé. Apt, don't you think? Come help him."

When the Black Rabbit calls your name, you've got to answer.

* * *

Hrarainlé settled in well in the warren. Well. He settled in, anyway. It was matter of opinion whether or not it was _well_.

There was frost on the ground every morning, and many rabbits took to sharing burrows to keep themselves warm. Hythlay was the exception of course, so stiff and proud he drove away any rabbit willing to share with him.

But Hrarainlé – Johnswort – was still healing, and Hythlay's burrow was the perfect location and really, Hythlay had to learn to share _sometime_.

All right, to be honest, Winter had just wanted the pair of them out of his fur.

He didn't expect it to actually work out.

* * *

The fifth time:

"This is a dream," Winter said.

Hythlay looked at him, unimpressed. "I had no idea you were the expert," he said.

Winter cuffed at him, but Hythlay slipped away like a fog. Sleek and quick, he settled next to the gaping hole in the earth where the warren used to be. "Something is playing with us," he said.

 _Zorn_ , the Black Rabbit said softly in his ear. _O zorn._

"Not going to happen," Winter snapped back.

"Then keep your guard up beyond Marlao," said the Black Rabbit.

"I see," Hythlay said.

"Well, someone's got to help _me_ ," Winter said.

"Oh, you know the saying, I'm sure," Hythlay said. "Just take it a little more literally."

The Black Rabbit pressed his paw against Winter's flank. It was colder than snow. "Remember," he said. "I am always watching."

It was even less comforting than the first time he said it.

* * *

Hythlay had noticed, of course. He'd looked at the tiny patch of silver fur where the Black Rabbit had touched and shaken his head. "They'll call you Silver by the end," he said.

He was a little better since Johnswort had started sharing his burrow, but that didn't say much.

"It's nothing," Winter insisted. "I'm getting old, that's all."

Hythlay wrinkled his nose at him as if he'd caught the scent of a fox. "Blind is what you are," he sniffed. "Frith only knows what your mother was thinking, naming you anything to do with _seeing_."

"It's nothing," Winter repeated.

Johnswort – it _was_ Johnswort, Winter remembered, except Hythlay always shortened it and he couldn't really blame him, _Hrarainlé_ was something of a mouthful – entered the burrow and stopped short.

"Hello," he said warily.

Johnswort had been in the Owsla of another warren, Winter was pretty sure. He had that look about him, knew how things worked. Sometimes Winter thought he regretted the mass of scar tissue on Johnswort's shoulder more than Johnswort did – he would have loved to patrol with him; he would have been able to trust him to watch his back, not like with the young bucks he was always pulling out of trouble.

Then he remembered that if Johnswort had never been shot, he would never have become a hlessi, or found their warren, and anyway, he couldn't take from Hythlay the one thing that made him halfway bearable.

What _Hythlay's_ mother had been thinking, naming him anything other than 'thorn' or 'thistle' was beyond Winter. _Shining fur. What hraka._

"Hello," Winter said.

"John, come here. Have a look at the good captain and tell me what you see."

"One of those days, is it?" Johnswort sighed, rolling his eyes as he limped past and sat next to Hythlay.

"I don't see anything different," he said after a long moment.

It was Hythlay's turn to roll his eyes. "Blind, the lot of you. Look at his flank, John. There, you see?"

Johnswort gave Winter an apologetic look and peered closely at the fur. "Oh," he said after a moment. He sat back on his haunches and favoured Hythlay with an unimpressed look. "So his fur's going grey, what of it?"

"I am surrounded by idiots," Hythlay growled. "The shape, John!"

"It looks like a paw print. So?"

"Oh, never mind! Constantly _tharn_ , the lot of you. I'm going to silflay."

They watched him go for a moment, before Winter turned to Johnswort and said "Does it really look like a paw print?"

"Yes," Johnswort said, turning awkwardly to try and tend his shoulder. "It's rather interesting."

"Interesting," Winter said. "Yes."

 _They'll call you Silver by the end._

He combed his ears and tried to pretend Hythlay's certainty didn't unsettle him.

* * *

The sixth time:

A hare laughed out in the field.

"That was close, wasn't it." It wasn't a question.

Winter nodded, heart still thudding.

"Why, if the hrududu hadn't slowed for that deer earlier, you'd be quite the mess."

"Well, I'm not," Winter said.

The Black Rabbit cuffed the side of his head, as if he were still a kitten, running too far from the burrow. "Mind yourself," he said sharply, turning and bounding away.

* * *

"I've seen rabbits go grey," Johnswort said, "But never so fast or in such odd patterns." He looked at Winter seriously. "You should stop."

"Stop what?"

"I'm sure you know."

"I'd have thought _you–_ " Winter began, and stopped. Johnswort was not the only translation of Hrarainlé's name.

"It's you that chases the Black Rabbit, not I," Johnswort said.

* * *

The seventh time:

Only Hythlay could make an enemy of a hare, for Frith's sake.

Winter darted a quick glance to John, crouched low, eyes fixed on Hythlay. Against the bulk of the hare, he looked even smaller than normal.

"I'll burn you," the hare said, in the sing-song tone hares took in their _marlao_ , though it was half a year past.

"I'd like to see you try," Hythlay snapped.

"No sense of self-preservation at all," the Black Rabbit said. "You'd think he'd be the one chasing my shadow, not you."

There was something very different about the Black Rabbit this time, something terrible in him that took Winter back all those seasons to their first meeting in the brambles.

"Eleerhay," the Black Rabbit said.

Winter squared his shoulders and lunged for the hare.

When the Black Rabbit says your name, you've got to answer.

**Author's Note:**

> About the names: Eleerhay means 'winter watch(ing)'. IDK, Gregory means 'watchful' and Lestrade seems the pessimistic sort?
> 
> Hythlay means 'shine-fur'; one of the accepted meanings of Sherlock is 'fair or bright-haired'.
> 
> Hrarainlé = _hrarail_ \+ _inlé_ and literally means 'chase-moon'. In the mythological context it could be considered equivalent to 'chase-devil', which is another name for St John's Wort, so John's name can be read as either the plant name or 'chasing the Black Rabbit'.
> 
> ...well, I was pleased with myself.  >.>


End file.
